‘Our friends within those walls-’
The interruption was abrupt. ‘They are not our friends, Ademar!’
‘Whatever they are, they sit above deep wells that will keep them supplied with water and I daresay they will have butchered and salted enough meat to keep them for a year, and that takes no account of what they have still on the hoof. Their storehouses will be bursting with grain and oats, while their stock of arrows will run into the thousands, given they have been untroubled for months and have had endless time to prepare. I fear even with the full might your father can bring to bear we will be here and looking at those walls for some time.’
‘Can we at least make a start on constructing ladders?’
‘I have a better suggestion, given we too have to eat. Let us, you and I, go and hunt, for the forests round here are bursting with game. I’ll wager you a skin of wine my lance finds flesh before your own.’
Robert de Hauteville, by papal investiture Duke of Apulia, Calabria and Sicily, known to all as the Guiscard, came in sight of Corato and the firepits of Ademar’s encampment two days later, with the newly risen sun still low at his back. Close behind him rode the body of familia knights, his personal followers, men who would stay close to their duke in battle and, if called upon, sacrifice their own bodies to keep safe his — no easy task given their master was a dedicated warrior who relished combat and always led from the very front whether he was mounted or on foot. No man would employ his lance more aggressively or wield a broadsword with more effect, just as none of his followers would ever enter the breach in an enemy wall ahead of their leader.
For all his prowess in battle — and he was famed throughout Christendom for his string of stunning successes, often against seemingly overwhelming odds — Robert de Hauteville was best known for his tactical cunning; he was just as quick to deceive his foes into forfeiting victory as to beat them down by main force and the fighting superiority of his knights. Hence his soubriquet, which, to those who admired him, meant he had an abundance of guile; those who did not hold him in high esteem clung to the other interpretation of the appellation Guiscard, which could also mean that the man who carried it was a weasel.
Behind him, strung out over a line several leagues in length, came the rest of his force: first the Norman lances, then the Lombard and Greek levies on foot, each one conscripted to fight but usually content to be fed and paid, then finally in terms of warriors, the cohort of crossbowmen. The approach of the host was announced well in advance by the great cloud of dust that their marching raised above the tops of the trees through which they had progressed. To their rear would come the sutlers, the men who looked after hundreds of spare horses, the sturdy fighting destriers and broad-backed pack animals, for each mounted Norman required those as well as a cavalry horse, while their lord was obliged to provide replacements for any lost in battle while in his service.
The host travelled farriers, armourers, leatherworkers to see to saddles and harness, carpenters skilled in making siege towers, lesser woodcutters to erect shelters of framed animal skins, labourers who would dig the latrine pits, the concubines of the fighting men along to cook and wash for them, as well as the usual flotsam of urchins and layabouts that attended every army on the move regardless of their country of origin. The difference with the Normans was their ability to detach themselves from this trailing mass of humanity and become a highly mobile and self-sustaining fighting force; in short, they could maintain themselves in the field, move quickly and use surprise as well as ability to confound their enemies.
Ademar, standing with and dwarfed by Bohemund, executed a half bow as his liege lord approached, though he examined him carefully for signs of wear; the Guiscard was in his late fifties and had been at war now for close to thirty years, from his days as a near-bandit chief living from hand to mouth in the wilds of Calabria to the man who headed armies that dwarfed the one he now led. Yet apart from some grey in his long, red-gold hair and an increase in the lines on his cheeks there seemed little evidence of him being in any way diminished.
Tall and burly, his eyes still had a twinkle that hinted at his mischievous nature, for he was always game for a jest and a bout of good-humoured wrestling, which stood in contrast to a fearsome temper to which he could switch in a blink of an eye. Robert de Hauteville was mercurial, not much given to open disclosure of his thinking, and as brave as a lion, a man to inspire love in many and loathing in others, generous one second and as mean as the most grasping miser the next.
Now they were close, Ademar could see in the midst of the familia knights a fellow in a scuffed leather jerkin and woollen leggings, bareheaded, filthy and chained to the pommel on his saddle and his stirrups. To Ademar’s mind Peter of Trani, who also held the title of Lord of Corato, deserved to be strung up to the nearest tree for his betrayal of his liege lord. It was Robert who had granted him every one of his possessions — the captaincy and high revenues of the important pilgrim port of Trani, as well as the demesne before which they were now assembled.
It was Robert who had shown Peter favour, raised him from one of his body of personal knights to a level to which all of his close followers aspired. The reward was to be betrayed while his liege lord was occupied in Sicily; Peter, in concert with other barons, raising their standards in revolt. Naturally, there were disgruntled Lombards, like those at Noci, who had taken advantage of that to launch their own bid for autonomy and paid a high price for their lack of fealty.
The look of disgust aimed at the prisoner was broken by the Guiscard’s gruff voice. ‘I had hoped to see you inside those walls, Ademar.’
Was that a jest or a gripe? Ademar could not tell, yet the Duke could not fail to notice his diminished numbers. ‘I prefer my head on my shoulders, not raised on an enemy spear.’
The Guiscard’s eyes flicked to the firepits where several carcasses were being roasted on spits — wild boar and deer — filling the air with their sizzling juices, and his tone was not benign. ‘Yet I see you have attempted nothing but to fill your belly.’
‘It was your belly I intended to fill, My Lord. We hunted hard so you would be fed on arrival.’
‘Noci you have secured?’
‘I presume my messenger informed you of that.’ The Duke nodded and slid easily out of his saddle, one of his knights having dismounted himself to hold the bridle. ‘He will also have told you of the bravery of your son, given I instructed him to do so.’
The ducal eyes moved to Bohemund and the leonine head nodded, though not with much fervour. ‘A veritable Achilles, your man said.’
Robert de Hauteville was a giant in his own right, not accustomed to have to look up to anyone, but as he approached Bohemund he was obliged to do just that: he could not fail to be impressed by his build. Yet there was no way he was going to let that show and, given the youngster was not about to throw his arms around a father he was not sure had regard for him, that led to an awkward interlude.
As their eyes locked Ademar knew there had to be a whole host of thoughts chasing through both minds, for Bohemund was not a bastard by birth; he had been made so by a decision of his father to set aside and declare annulled his marriage to the boy’s mother. The Guiscard would claim it was brought on by consanguinity — Bohemund’s Norman mother Alberada had been too close in cousinage to her husband, and his father had sought intercession from a compliant pope to set her aside. The young man, as well as his elder sister Emma, would always harbour the suspicion that the marriage had been annulled for political concerns, not for any perceived sin against the strictures of Holy Church, for the gap between the annulment being granted and their father’s marriage to a new Lombard wife had not been long in gestation.